


Allowed Wants

by ArgylePirateWD



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: John Reese's Bulletproof Harold Finch Kink, M/M, Mutual Pining, Under-Desk Blow Jobs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-17
Updated: 2019-08-17
Packaged: 2020-09-06 07:22:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20287615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArgylePirateWD/pseuds/ArgylePirateWD
Summary: "Pretty sure your dick can't suck itself. Be impressive if it could, though. You could probably make a fortune doing porn."





	Allowed Wants

**Author's Note:**

  * For [reeby10](https://archiveofourown.org/users/reeby10/gifts).

> This started its life as silly porn, but of _course_ John and Harold caught feelings. They always catch feelings.

It's funny how Harold is always so confused when John first sinks to his knees. The wide eyes, the gaping mouth, the eventual slow and perplexed, "What are you doing, Mr. Reese?" It'd be worth doing just for that, really. Harold is so cute when he's baffled.

"You mean you haven't already figured it out?" John reaches for Harold's fly, keeping his movements clear and deliberate as he opens Harold's pants, just in case Harold wants to stop him. He hasn't before, and it doesn't look like he's going to this time, either. "Thought you were a genius."

"Yes, well." Harold straightens a little in his seat, and adjusts his glasses. A delightful pink flush is flooding his pale skin, and his cock is growing hard below John's fingers. "Some things are still—" John slips his cock free, and Harold's breath catches the tiniest bit. His voice stays infuriatingly even as he finishes speaking. "—beyond my comprehension, I'm afraid."

Like the idea of John wanting him, John guesses. It's come up before. Harold's got as many reasons John shouldn't want him running through his head as he does dollars in his bank accounts. They're all bullshit. He likes Harold. Hell, he probably loves him—though that idea is too terrifying to think about right now. There's not much he wouldn't do for Harold Finch.

And sucking Harold's cock? Of course he'll do that, gladly. He likes sucking cock. Especially Harold's. Harold always makes these great quiet breathy noises, and he feels good in John's mouth, tastes good on his tongue, soaks up every touch like no one's ever touched him before. It's always a joy to please Harold like this.

John pushes his thoughts aside, and goes back to the matter—and penis, he thinks, with slight amusement—at hand.

"Pretty sure your dick can't suck itself," he says, and that fun pink blush flares brighter across Harold's cheeks. Excellent. "Be impressive if it could, though. You could probably make a fortune doing porn." He idly strokes Harold's cock as he speaks, enjoying the heat of it, the weight of the thick length in his hand, the delicate softness of the skin. "I'd watch it."

"I've already made a fortune elsewhere, and I'd refuse to star in pornography anyway," Harold says. "Mr. Reese, why are you—"

"You heard our number, Mr. Finch." He almost never pairs "Mr." with "Finch," but now he's making a point, and it gets Harold to make this small, involuntary sound that goes straight to John's own cock. Or maybe Harold does it because John's dragging the rough pad of his thumb over the head of Harold's cock. Either way, John needs to hear it again. "'Good bosses get good blowjobs.' And _you_ are an excellent boss."

"Our number was a truly repulsive individual."

"Yeah, but what's that saying about stopped clocks?" He absently rubs Harold's cock, spreading the wetness starting to leak from the tip over the soft skin.

Harold's eyes briefly flutter closed, but he comes back to himself quickly. He reaches out, tilting John's chin, gently urging John to look at him. "John, you really don't have to—"

"I really want to, though." John meets Harold's earnest and worried gaze with steady eyes, unblinking, unflinching, hoping Harold can tell just how much he _wants,_ how much he always wants, every single time he does this. Not looking away, he leans in, taking a moment to savor the clean sweat and musk smell of him this close. He catches a hint of menthol pain cream, too, near Harold's bad hip, which does unpleasant things to his heart and makes him swear in his head. If Harold's feeling bad, then goddammit, John's going to do everything he can to make him feel better instead.

"I like it," he says, and kisses the tip of Harold's cock. Harold gasps softly. With a smile, John adds, "And I like you."

After a long, breathless moment, Harold nods slightly, and releases John's chin. He sinks back in his seat, and lets his hands lie lax on the armrests. "Then, by all means, please continue."

So he does.

He takes Harold into his mouth, just the tip of his cock at first, savoring the bitter, salt taste of him and the way he hisses at the touch. Harold never moans, never gets loud, probably won't this time, either, which is a damn shame. One of these days, John _will_ make him moan, make that tightly-held control snap in the most satisfying way.

He can wait. Getting to do this makes it easier, getting to lick the length of Harold's cock, getting to suck it, getting to touch him and feel him and please him. It's always been one of John's favorite things, using his mouth. Being this close to someone, tasting them, smelling their most hidden places.

It's especially thrilling with Harold. Sneaking beneath his armor—being _allowed_ beneath it. Baring parts of Harold's body, making him feel, if not good, better. Being the only one. Harold let slip once that he hadn't had sex, hadn't been sucked off or jerked off or fucked, hadn't fucked anyone since Grace. Too many walls for orgasms with a friendly or paid stranger.

But he lets John do this sometimes. How could John not be thrilled by it?

"You are going to be the death of me," Harold says, voice shaking slightly, and curls a hand around the back of John's head. John chuckles, knowing it'll reverberate around Harold's cock, and Harold lets out a choked-off little half-groan and clutches at John's hair, a bright sting of pleasant pain.

He takes Harold in deeper, pulls back, seeking the best rhythm. "Oh my goodness," Harold breathes, like a swear. "Oh, god."

_Not even close_, John thinks, half-wry, half-regretful. If anyone is close to godly in this library full of fuck-ups, it's the man who built a digital deity, the man who turned John into someone almost worthy to kneel before him and suck his cock. The man whose breath is coming in ragged gasps now, punctuated by tiny little whines and erratic grasping at John's hair and sporadic, halting jerks of hips, like Harold wants to fuck his mouth like he usually does but his body won't let him.

That's why he has John.

After another attempted thrust has Harold making a sound that's more pain than pleasure, John grabs his good hip and holds him in place, and Harold groans in frustration. John glances up, hoping to convey that he's got this, Harold doesn't have to do anything, but Harold's eyes are clenched shut.

"Please," Harold says, and John watches his mouth move around the word, the way his wet, bite-reddened lips shape it. "John, please."

John realizes he's stopped moving. That's no good at all. He swallows Harold down to the limit. Harold gasps like the air's been punched from his lungs, and John chokes himself on Harold's cock, loving how it makes his eyes water, his chest burn, his head spin, this small flirtation with danger.

Only there's no small danger in flirting with Harold, in fucking with Harold, in sucking Harold off. He feels it every time, in the aching black organ in his chest that quivers and quickens and races. He wants Harold, loves Harold, and, dear god, it's probably going to kill him one day. Harold deserves so much better than him, and one day Harold's going to realize that, and it'll hurt worse than almost any pain John's ever faced when Harold finally says no.

John gets back into rhythm, the hot and fast and steady back-and-forth of helping Harold fuck his mouth. Harold's getting closer, John can tell, can hear it in the sounds he's making, the added pleas in every little bitten-back whine. John slips his free hand into Harold's pants, cups Harold's balls in his palm, teases them with his thumb. The answering quiet groan goes straight to John's forgotten cock.

He ignores the feeling, disappearing into a place where everything is Harold—Harold's noises, Harold's smell, Harold's taste, Harold's belly against his forehead and Harold's hard cock stretching his mouth and Harold. It doesn't matter that his jaw aches or spit is dripping from his mouth or his dick wants to be touched. He wants Harold to feel good, wants to bring Harold off, and Harold is close, murmuring, "John—oh, god, John," over and over in varying combinations between ragged, desperate breaths and filthy little sounds from the depths of his throat.

Fuck, it feels so good to do this for Harold.

"I'm going to—_John_." Harold gives John's hair a warning tug, like he hasn't learned yet that John will keep going every time. And he does. Harold comes, flooding John's mouth. John swallows it all greedily, sucking down every single salty drop until Harold is breathless and sagging and spent.

John wipes his wet mouth on his sleeve, then presses one last kiss to Harold's cock before tucking Harold back into his pants, hands shaking as he fastens every little button on Harold's fly. Softly repeating, "Oh," Harold runs his fingers through John's hair, his touch tender and achingly sweet. John averts his eyes, focusing on setting Harold's clothes to rights before dropping his hands to Harold's lap, running his hands along Harold's thighs just for something to do. "John," Harold says. "John, you are...exquisite."

Harold tilts John's chin up again like before, and John makes himself meet Harold's eyes. There's a smile on Harold's face, half-dazed, all fond, and Harold traces John's throbbing lips with his thumb. It's the kind of look that hurts, goes deep into John's heart and twists like a knife.

"Told you your dick couldn't suck itself," John rasps, hoping humor will ease the pain in his chest. It doesn't.

Harold lets out a small huff of laughter, but the softness doesn't leave his eyes. "I'd quite like to reciprocate," he says, "when I am more..." He waves a hand. "_Compos mentis_."

"You don't have to do anything," John says, and kisses the pad of Harold's thumb. "I'm fi—"

"What part of 'quite like to' are you not understanding, John?" Harold asks, face falling, and John hides his own in the soft curve of Harold's belly, presses a kiss to the yielding flesh through Harold's tweed vest. He feels like Harold is going to see everything, is going to look at him and _know_, and...

And then Harold asks, in a small, resigned voice, "Or do you just not want me to touch you?"

John looks up sharply. "That's not it." That's not it at all.

"Then what—oh. Oh!" He strokes John's face, and John leans into the touch, eyes fluttering closed. "Do you really think this is all I want from you? Oh my goodness, John, no. I just...I thought..."

"Thought what?"

Harold sighs. "That I should take what I could get, and not ask for more."

"You deserve more." John turns and kisses the center of Harold's palm, nuzzles it with his nose. "Better. Better than me."

"And you deserve better than me." With his other hand, Harold traces John's eyelashes, fingertip skimming lightly over the hairs. "Perhaps that means it would work out, then," he continues. "Two people who need to be better, working together to be better. I already think you are a good man, but you want to be better. You think I am a good man, but I want to be be better. And we both seem to want more from each other?"

John nods. "Everything." He kisses Harold's hand again, moves down to Harold's wrist, kisses smooth and delicate skin over vivid blue veins. "Everything you're willing to give me, I want."

"And I want to give you everything I can, and want anything you are willing to offer me as well." The smile is back in Harold's voice, and the knots in John's chest come untied. "So why don't we do this, hm? John, why don't you come up here and let me kiss you, and touch you?"

Helpless to do anything else, John obeys.


End file.
